She Bangs, She Bangs

The other evening in an effort to not let strawberry jello fall to the floor thus making a mess, I leaped forward to the sink whereby my second toe slammed into the child’s gate. This gate that protects Owen and Maggie from certain kitchen death often leads me to swift pain in the form of a stub. “Fuck! FUCK!!! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mutherfucking FUUCCCKKKKK.” I feel to the floor in a heap, clutching my foot and crying. I don’t normally cry after injury, I cuss like a sailor and then shake it off. This is something I usually tell Owen and Maggie when hurt, “Shake it off.” (Not swear). Owen usually responds with his ass shimmying; Maggie, her hands. But there I lay on the floor, my toe again the victim of a viscous stub. The pain was so bad that I could not uncover my hand at fear of what I might see. And when I did, it was bad, a bruise already forming and skin dangling. Thankfully, it was not the toe-decapitation imagined. My toes, if you have not been privy to see, are a tad long. My 2nd and 3rd in line are longer than my big toe. This is a trait from my mother that luckily has not been passed to my children. For years, I have suspected this was the source of my totally clumsiness. My big toe in its diminutive state is incapable of providing the stability necessary to a support body. I submit to you, Evidence A - my toes (pardon the state of my feet - I run and could care less about pedicures).


As you can see by the above photo, my big toe is woefully deficient. It should be at least an inch longer. Thankfully, it is not. Because that would mean size 11 shoes, and have you seen size 11 shoes? Neither have I, maybe once on a carnival clown. Although my big toe is awful in its ability to keep me from toe banging excruciating pain, it is thoughtful enough in its small stature to provide me with an assortment of shoes that do no scream circus. Thank you, big toe.

Tales From MUNI

Two weeks ago, I got aboard the NJudah and made my way to work. At Sunset Boulevard a girl sat next to me. Score, especially since she was rather thin and not smelly. I think we can agree that although we will sit next to the musky man muttering, we prefer a semi-normal being to share seat space.

Then it started. She started playing with her hair. Combing her hands through her long brown locks over and over until there was a stray single hair on her shirt, or pants or coat that she would carefully excise from its location. Bringing it forward, she would would flick her fingers until the hair fell between her knees to the floor. She was grooming herself as if she were a monkey the entire way until Montgomery Street, which was at least 50 minutes.

I sat reading my Kindle getting the side vision of what she was doing. As she succeeded in pick and flick number ten, I began to get annoyed, but more importantly disgusted. How can you possibly believe this is okay to do on public transportation? I thought it had to be a nervous tick of some sort, and then how sad it was this person will never marry. I wanted to shake her, but instead adjusted my vision so that it was impossible to bear witness to the abhorent action. I covered my eyes with my hand, essentially making a blinder. But every so often into my field of vision there it was - a hand releasings its find. Finally the speaker announced “Montgomery Station”, whack-a-doo off boarded and I breathe a sign of relief.

Is this normal? Was my reaction normal? I don’t know. Believe me for some reason things do get under my skin and make me insane - like open cabinet doors, or curtains, or vodka bottles. I kid, that last one is kind of awesome. But holy cow, Ms. Hair Extractor 2011, you top them all. Please do me the favor of never sitting with me again for I will gladly take psychotic bi-polar off his meds bearded clam smelling man, at least he's normal.

The Social Etiquette of Running

Tomorrow is my two year anniversary of running at work. I feel happy that I have continued on the path of the Embarcadero to relative health and fitness. And while I like running as much as anyone can like an activity that is very solitude in nature and often painful in effort, there is a seemingly social etiquette aspect that I am learning.

1. Men runners like to waive “hi” to me when running.
2. Women runners like to just stare.
3. Men runners talk to you sometimes.
4. Women runners check out your thighs.
5. Men runners get really pissed off when you pass them.

I don’t really get the “hi” or “great jobs” I sometimes receive from male runners. Once there was a wink, but I am pretty sure that might have been an insect that had flown into this guy’s eye because the last thing I would imagine anyone would want to do when gasping for air down the Embarcadero is flirt. But then this guy today waved at me and I was all - holy shit, maybe I need a new sports bra to contain this bounce. So, someone, tell me - is it just a friendly thing one does to acknowledge your comrade in breathing hell, or are these fools unaware that I can’t even comprehend the concept of flirting anymore. I am a mom for god’s sake. Gross.

Running and Kids Update

This afternoon for strength training, I decided that the best course of action was to run one mile to the front part of AT&T Park in order to do the exercises, because the likelihood of anyone seeing me from the office was minimal. And it is pretty.


On that grassy field I proceeded to do pushups, triceps dips, step ups, lunges, and sit up after sit up. I also had the audacity to see some guy working out with a kettle ball and thinking him strange. Ah, yeah. I killed myself and was virtual jelly, but still had to run the one mile back to my office. This just goes to show you that the pain of embarrassment from your co-workers looking at you while working out maybe less than that of running a mile after “toning” up. Anyway, I truly doubt I will be able to walk tomorrow.

This weekend we headed to Point Reyes Drake’s Beach which is very lovely, and the kids got their Clam Chowder fix. Of course, Owen napped on the way back home. This is not good for me, because usually on the weekend he does not nap. Meaning 7:15 p.m. bedtime and no yogup (his term for yoga) or talking about our day or me reading to him from my Kindle. Which he now likes me to do as he rests into oblivion. Does reading aloud Wuthering Heights to your child qualify as child abuse? Anyhoo, in an attempt to get him tired we allowed him to ride his bike to the Park Chalet - about 2.5 miles back and forth. He was very excited. Someone not so excited, Maggie. To their credit, Owen and Maggie share pretty well. They take turns picking out what to watch on TV, sharing their toys, etc. But Owen’s bike is Owen’s bike. She can’t use it because she is smaller than him. So the entire time Owen is riding his bike, Maggie is in the stroller screaming “Owen no share the bike!!” “I want the bike!!” “BIIIKKKKEEEEEEEEEE.” There is no reasoning with the two year old in tantrum mode. There is drinking though, thank you Park Chalet. When we finally arrived, Owen got off his bike and Maggie proceeded to grab his helmet, climb on top and stay there pretty much the entire 90 minute visit. Trying to peddle, but not able to because she does not fit on the thing, but that did not stop her happily sitting atop the seat. And then when it was time to go home, Little Miss Crazy threw another tantrum because “Owen no share.”, even though she was on the bike for 90 minutes. I told John to just go with Owen and I would walk her in the stroller another way back. This way she would not be tortured by the sight of a happily riding Owen. But Maggie is a girl that does not give in easily to her Mom’s attempts to distract. Bubbles? “BIKEEEE”. Raisins? “BIIKKEEEE”. She clawed, shook and moved her body so that she was able to get out of her five point harnessed BOB stroller. Houdini has nothing on this kid. She refused to get back into the stroller. So, I got to carry her in my arms all the way home while pushing the BOB and hearing her whispers of bike, bike, bike until one block from the house. Because that is when she decided to go into the stroller with her bubbles. She is insane.

The Friday Rundown

I want to state that this blog will no longer will be featuring recaps of the epic saga Game of Thrones, mainly because I am sick of people visiting my site but typing the words “boy sucking tit game of thrones” into Google. Call me crazy.

This week marked my first week of Half Marathon training. Those not in the know a Half Marathon is wherein I will run 13.1 miles. I told you to call me crazy. Because I felt that two years of continuous running warranted something, so immediately my mind ran to self-torture in the form of running 13 plus miles. Although truth be told, I was getting a bit bored with my runs and needed something to shake them up - an attainable goal. This week has involved 50 minutes of yoga, three 3 mile runs one of which was interval training. Today, thank god, is my only rest day of the week before another 3 miler tomorrow and my initial Sunday long run of 5 miles. Holy cow, exercise. This is the intermediate training program, not the beginner as I felt that too easy. I think I might regret this decision. I feel strong, and hopefully I can accomplish this goal with minimal cursing.

The world of parenting continues and always fraught with adventure. Owen is obsessed with turning five lately, even though that will not happen for another six months. “I want to turn 5 tomorrow, mama.” “I want a piñata at my birthday.” The last statement took me about 3 minutes to figure out as he began with “I want an Ngata.” And I am all, “Like the defensive tackle on the Ravens?” But nope, it was not Haloti Ngata but a Piñata. This is awesome as his birthday is in December, and it is usually cold and rainy then. But if he wants a piñata, a piñata he will get. I am a cool Mom like that.

In Maggie news, we are firmly entrenched it Tantrum City. I suggest you never visit Tantrum City because it is fully of crazy people who want everything and when they don’t get it they throw themselves on the ground for 20 minutes wailing like they are being water boarded only in some instant to forget it all, get up and start playing like nothing ever happened. This repeats every two hours. Maggie is also very fond of the words “No.” and “Go Away.” She has also developed an almost crazed addiction to popsicles and Mike and Ikes. Every morning she asks for “opposickle.” Its morning, no. “Cannddyyyyyyy, Mama.” Not until we leave. I give my children 2 Mike and Ikes each morning so they will get the hell out of the house so that I can travel on the N Judah. Bribery works. It works well. And they are losing those teeth anyway, so whatever.

Our weekend is going to be filled with such exciting adventures as swim class, the Park Chalet and a journey to Drake’s Beach in Point Reyes. I am sure there will be fish and chips and clam chowder involved because that is the thing my kids like right now - fish and clams. I know, they are weird - or you can inherit Bostonianisms. Go Bruins!



Don't let their cheerful demeanor fool you.